


honey, you're familiar

by yogurtgun



Series: The Vranjska Series [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Free Folk have their own language, Gen, Godswood, Languages, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Tormund and Sansa being bros, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: Tormund quirks an eyebrow, eyes still on the pages. “If you’re interested in me, I’m already taken.”It catches Sansa so off-foot she’s rendered mute until the man laughs. The flush she feels on her cheeks is as unexpected as the speed with which it spreads to her ears and down her neck.“I know,” Sansa insists. “You have children.”





	honey, you're familiar

**Author's Note:**

> I love Outsider POV and I also like Tormund feeling a part of the Stark family. I will also be posting Jon's POV during this timeline. Hope you enjoy, I tried to do Sansa's character justice. 
> 
> Also, one of the things that annoyed be the most was Sansa and Arya's reunion. As someone with sisters, the writers really missed the mark. Not to mention that Arya's whole story was her trying to get home and be with her family. Of course she wouldn't menace Sansa! It undermines her whole character. 
> 
> Keeping up with the theme, the title is based on Hozier's songs. This time "From Eden".

It’s said that no matter the size of the home three things are certain: there’s always fewer barrels of ale than needed, unexpected guests choose the worst time to visit, and there are always rats in the grain room. The latter is oftentimes the worst. 

Depending on the size, the infestation can be kept in check with cats or dogs. For castle grain rooms, however, sometimes more extreme measures need to be taken. Sansa’s read that, at times, the whole rooms were cleared out until the source of the infestation was found and water was pumped into the hole until the mice drowned. Then the hole would be sealed shut, and the room cleaned up, before it could be used as a storage facility again. 

Winterfell needed a good cleaning after Ramsay. With the disease cleared out, what was left of his men were spared, but only because of the word Jon had given them at the gates. In return, after they rejoined their family, they swore to fight for Winterfell once the King in the North called for them.

Sansa would have been happier sending them all to the Wall.

Even after the battlefield’s picked cleaned of bodies, the Knights of the Vale who had perished returned to be buried in their house’s crypts and Rickon laid to rest in those under Winterfell, there’s still a funeral pyre for all the others. 

Sansa and Jon go to pay their respects. After all, more wildlings gave their lives for the Stark home than any of their bannermen. They should be rewarded in whichever way is best. 

For a while they stand to the side, observing, after Jon shook hands with their chieftains. 

He speaks their language with a fluency Sansa had not thought her brother possessed. The words sound jagged to Sansa’s ears but Jon’s tongue slips over them with practiced ease and often carries the sound of respect Sansa can recognize anywhere.

Though she keeps an eye on her brother, he still somehow manages to slip from her after the red-headed wildling chieftain comes over to speak with him. It’s as if she blinks and Jon’s in the middle of them, barely visible from the tall men and women surrounding him. 

Many have lost their lives but even more would have died had Jon not listened to her. The shock of the battle wasn’t the Vale Knights riding in to win the battle -- it was watching Jon ride out to try and meet their brother and, despite seeing Rickon being shot down, return to their side to hold the line instead of being provoked to charge. 

She may have not been able to see the smirk sliding from Ramsey’s face, but she’d known it had happened, and she’d seen the restlessness in his figure by the way his horse had jittered. It was almost as good as seeing him turn tail and run back to Winterfell only for his men to betray him to the mercy of a Stark, both Jon’s and Sansa’s. 

However, that day had been no mercy. More importantly, she’d seen what Jon was like when truly angry. 

Ramsey’s men had feared their lord and they’d died for it. But the wildlings do not fear Jon. They pat him on the shoulder freely, speak to him freely, get close without thinking of possible repercussions. Someone wouldn’t have thought much of it looking from the outside in but she knew Jon as a child -- he rarely let anyone close enough for more than a quick pat on the back, let alone a hug, except their father and Arya. She had rarely seen him smiling then, but now, it gets drawn out by the people she’d thought of as nothing more than savages.

Sansa realizes she’s a slow learner but, noting the people surrounding Jon and Jon accepting their attention while looking every bit a part of them despite the better clothes, she thinks she might need to re-learn certain things. 

Just as she’s decided to walk back to her horse and await the return to Winterfell there, the pyre will not burn out until the small hours of the morning, Jon turns to her and extends his hand to beckon her over. Sansa looks uncertainty at the people surrounding Jon, but she trusts him as much as she can trust anyone but herself. She’s met Tormund already as well, though he’d looked mismatched in the confines of Castle Black and the commander tents. Here, drawn up to his full height, towering over Jon and wide as a tree-trunk, he strikes a frightening pose. 

Sansa goes. Hand in hand next to Jon, she stands as he talks the wildling tongue with two women and a man. The women lean on spears, both almost as tall as Brienne. One expends a hand, pats Jon on the shoulder, then looks at Sansa and says something else that makes Jon crack a smile, and the two laugh. It doesn’t sound unkind. Sansa can tell; she’s been hearing dishonest laugh most of her life. 

On the way back to Winterfell, riding alongside Jon, she asks, “What did the women say?”

Jon smiles one of his soft, gentle, smiles. “They said that if you ever want to learn how to fight, you should come to them. You have the height.”

She looks sideways at Jon, cocking an eyebrow. “Ladies do not fight.”

“That’s what I told them,” Jon says, in his most pacifying voice. Sansa hates that it works on her. 

Tormund, next to Jon, turns towards her with an unsettling look and says, “That’s why they said that at least this way, Jon will have a good head to rule his shoulders.”

Sansa realizes they’re talking about her only when they cross the Winterfell gate. 

-

The consequences of bringing in professionals to clean out the mice infestation is that they want payment for their services. Were it the question of gold or land, Sansa would have been able to oblige. However, Petyr Baelish demands a different sort of payment; one that Sansa will never give but that she cannot yet absolutely refuse. After all, Petyr Baelish is the largest rat of them all and she has yet to come across a way to rid her home of him. 

Like tolerating mice in the attic, so too Sansa must tolerate Petyr Baelish. 

So too, it seems, she has to tolerate Jon’s first administrative mistakes. She loves him, but Jon has less head for ruling than he does for fighting -- his Brothers of the Watch had killed him for his decisions. Besides, she knows she will take on the tedious tasks of clothing their people, feeding them, keeping them alive for the winter to come, while Jon will talk pretty words at northern lords who didn’t come to their rescue and make deals that don’t benefit them. 

Meanwhile, John will still be cross with her for not telling him about the Knights of the Vale. But Sansa couldn’t have, even if she wanted to. She wasn’t sure they’d come. After all, Baelish lied and he might have used this somehow against John on the battlefield. They would be expecting aid where none would come.

In the fissure between them created by their struggle for balance, Baelish creeps in, spilling his poison. 

The library is one of the rare places she’d went to as retreat. Usually shadowy corners and few people meant being accosted by her perpetual shadow but Baelish is nowhere to be seen. She walks through the bookshelves separated by tables and only once she gets almost to the end does she see someone  _ is _ there after all.

“Tormund?” she says before her mind can catch up with her. The man has a few sheets of paper neatly spread on the table and a book open in front of him. He looks up at her lazily, then lifts his eyebrows. 

_ Chieftain _ , Sansa remembers. Jon had said that if wildlings had lords, then they would be it. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, gruff and low, sounding like what a bear would sound were it able to talk in their language. 

Sansa hears the doors behind her opening and she slips into the chair across from the man before she can make sure it’s Baelish. Anything, at this point, is better than him.

She looks at the papers on the table. Letters. He’s learning how to  _ read _ .

“How are you efforts going?” she asks, trying not to offend. She knows that men, especially, are particular about their pride. 

Unlike what she expects, Tormund smiles and says, “Not as well as I hope. But that’s just the way it goes.”

Sansa nods. She glances from her seat but she doesn’t see anybody. It’s her chance to retreat to her chambers. Before she can leave Tormund says, “Thank you.”

It catches Sansa off guard so much she snaps her eyes back to him, trying to think whatever this man could be thanking her for. 

“That stuck up Lord Royce and his knights,” Tormund says. “They came for you, didn’t they?”

Sansa nods. “Did Jon tell you that?”

Tormund laughs, leaning back into the chair. Were he wearing something other than furs, Sansa could imagine him doing that in at a lord’s table. 

“I have two eyes and a brain between them,” Tormund replies. Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound offended, only amused. “We were fucked and I had vows to keep. So thank you.”

Sansa nods, accepting his gratitude. Then she looks down at the book again and asks, “What are you reading?”

Somehow, she loses at least half an hour speaking with Tormund, who apparently picked the book thinking it would be filled with stories of battles. History of Westeros wasn’t exactly easy reading, she remembers, and laughs. 

“I think you might like a collection of bard tails better,” she offers. 

Tormund sighs. “You may be right. But I picked this one out. I’ll finish it.”

Sansa can respect that. She can also respect a man who, it seems, wants to better himself in any way he can. 

####  \- 

Word spreads like wildfire. Once the lords pronounce John the King in the North, the little people come pouring in one after another: farmers, blacksmiths, cooks, tailors, leatherworkers. Winterfell becomes loud once again, jovial in its rebirth. 

Sansa had taken care of speaking with the staff. Some are familiar to her, but only few, like Maester Luwin. Ramsey had a temper, and if Sansa wasn’t spared, neither were the staff. 

With new people coming in from all sides, she fills in the gaps left by Ramsey with people she makes sure to remember. If she knows someone’s name, she knows their family, and knows under which house they serve. With warm food and good conditions, she knows they would think again about being bought. She needs loyal people around her.

Sansa makes sure to keep an ear out if there is a single mother or grandmother with child who needs help. There are bound to be those crippled, lame, and old who will be needing help in the coming winter days, and if nothing else, their infirmary is still well-stocked.

There is much to do in Winterfell to keep her busy throughout the whole day, though her attention wavers each time Baelish forces his presence upon her. During such time, she finds one way or another to slip back to the library to lose his trail. One would think that Littlefinger would give up any intentions he had towards her but Sansa should have known he’s as stubborn as he’s cunning. 

Baelish knows he’s owed a debt and Sansa’s running out of time.

The library is usually occupied either by children being taught to red or Maester Luwin. It’s a rare chance to catch Tormund inside, secreted away in a corner. She sits in the chair across from him and sighs. She knows, should Baelish follow her, he would think twice about interrupting her conversation with anyone.

Tormund quirks an eyebrow, eyes still on the pages. “If you’re interested in me, I’m already taken.”

It catches Sansa so off-foot she’s rendered mute until the man laughs. The flush she feels on her cheeks is as unexpected as the speed with which it spreads to her ears and down her neck. “I  _ know _ ,” Sansa insists. “You have children.”

Tormund looks at her with knowing eyes, but he does not correct her. “Marriage doesn’t work the same for us.”

“I’ve been married one too many times,” Sansa replies. She’s surprised by her own admission. She glances around, but as usual, people generally steer clear of the library. What could Tormund do to her regardless should he repeat her words? He’s loyal to her brother, and besides, Tormund’s word against hers means less than Jon’s would have meant against Robb’s. 

“I know,” Tormund says, surprising her once again. She doesn’t like this many surprises. She prefers to be prepared, to see everything coming. “Jon told me.”

“Does Jon tell you everything?” she asks, irritation seeping into her voice. 

Tormund puts a strip of soft leather between pages he’d been reading and closes the book. “He did tell me you killed a king.”

_ Oh _ , Sansa thinks. “If I have it correctly, Jon killed your king too.”

“Mance Rayder,” Tormund nods. “The King beyond the Wall. Did you know of him?”

Sansa shakes her head. Tormund takes the chance to tell her of the man who was Mance Rayder up until the very end of his life. 

“He sounds like a better man that Joffrey ever was.”  _ Though,  _ Sansa thinks,  _ being better than Joffrey is not a difficult thing to accomplish _ . She realizes Tormund might not know who Joffrey even is. “Do you know who the Lannisters and Baratheons are?”

“Vaguely. I know of Stannis,” Tormund admits. However, he looks eager to hear and Sansa had never really had such eager ears before. Explaining who the king was before Joffrey is easy, and after she sees Tormund’s distaste for him, it’s even easier to explain Cersei. 

She looks down at the History of Westeros book still at the table. “Why are you reading that anyway?”

Tormund smiles. “When your brother came to Hardhome, he told us a story about dragons and about a mad king who wanted to burn down the world.”

“That’s Aerys Targaryen,” she says, “who was killed by Jamie Lannister, the queen’s brother I just told you about. Robert Baratheon took his throne.”

Tormund nods. Then he cringes and says, “You know, of all the things you told me, the easiest thing to believe is that this queen of yours is a brother-fucker you know?  _ People _ .”

“That’s how I feel when you mention the Night King,” Sansa admits. “I want to make fun of it, but only because I don’t want to believe it’s real. Because if it is, then it’s so much more terrifying.”

“Yet you face your fears and believe.” Tormund sounds, Sansa notes, almost proud. “You’re even stronger than I thought, Sansa Stark.”

In a strange way, Sansa thinks later as she’s sitting at the high table, she feels seen by Tormund. Recognized. Acknowledged. Maybe that’s why Jon likes the man’s presence so much. Maybe this is how it feels to have someone’s absolute respect and being seen as equals, just like the northern lords look at Jon.

####  -

When she was a child she had a set bedtime. She’d go to her room and spend a few hours either doing embroidery, sewing, reading or praying with Septa Mordane. It had never occurred to her that she could sneak out and walk the hallways. Arya was caught one too many times doing that, and she hadn’t wanted to be scolded like Arya. 

Now there is nobody to scold her, to forbid her or punish her. There is no Septa in Winterfell anymore. When her mother had come to Winterfell, with her had come the new gods, the septas that served and the knights that obeyed. However, the light of the seven never helped Sansa. She is a Stark. She is her father’s daughter, just as Jon is his son. Winterfell is only for the old gods now.

When she cannot sleep, Sansa walks the familiar halls that she could not while she was Ramsey’s prisoner. The guards on the battlements pretend they don’t see her and when she makes her way down to the kitchens, the staff is asleep. 

She makes herself a cup of warm milk and spoons in a generous dollop of honey. She’d gotten used to wines, beers, and ales, but this reminds her of easier times. Recognizing the person who she used to be is difficult, usually shameful, but there is no weakness in looking herself in the eye. She was a girl, and then she wasn’t.

The kitchen doors open without a sound. Sansa would not have known were she not sitting at the kitchen table, looking straight at them. 

She expects to see guards, servants, even Jon. She does not expect to see Tormund with three layers too little. 

He looks at her, eyes widening for a moment before he closes the doors behind him. “Evening,” he says quietly, then goes about doing whatever he’d come there to do which, Sansa learns, is warm some water. 

He puts the kettle over the hot coals and takes a seat while he waits for the water to boil. Sansa notes the different boots, soft pliable leather so rare to find outside of castle walls, leather breeches that must have been hiding under all those skins, and a tunic. Something’s wrapped around his knee, though Sansa cannot get a better look. She also notes Tormund has one of Jon’s cloaks wrapped around his shoulders. 

There’s a particular scent she associates with the many furs Tormund wears, but it’s gone now. Instead he smells of perfumed oil. Just like the one in the family baths.

Tormund doesn’t seem particularly interested in making conversation and Sansa doesn’t really wish to talk either. She’s been talking the whole day. Instead, she watches as Tormund dips his hand to check the water temperature then takes the kettle off and pours the water into a waterskin.

“If you want, it would be easier just to take a kettle to your room,” she offers. The Winterfell halls are cold and she finds it particularly cruel to make someone traverse them during the night just for some hot water. 

“I appreciate it,” Tormund says, and leaves with both the waterskin and kettle in hand. 

####  -

The more serious the talk of the White Walkers becomes, the more people she sees in her courtyard training in combat. Beside Brienne and Pod, who’d been practicing swordsmanship ever since they settled in Winterfell, there are farmers and lower bannermen who wish to learn their craft better, and those who’d survived the battle of the Bastards who refuse to become complacent.

From time to time she sees flashes of grey furs particular to wildlings, keeping busy, be it tanning leather or sharpening weapons. Much to the disgruntled and somewhat confused northermen, the wildlings seem to have no doubts about using Winterfell’s facilities for themselves. She’s no longer surprised to see them, and despite what Lord Royce says, he knows that Tormund had also grown familiar to him. After all, the most the wildling chieftains do is stay quiet, lest it has something to do with their people.

It’s not their home, Sansa thinks, but they’ve earned it all the same. It can  _ become _ their home should they wish to allow themselves to settle. She’s seen curious children looking around as they follow their elders around. Maybe it will be difficult on the adults to get used to their way of life but not on the children who, Jon’s reassured her, quickly pick up common-tongue. 

There’s a chance of something here, Sansa thinks. A different sort of existence. Though, she doesn’t see anyone running to start dressing in the way she and other northerners do.

When Sansa asks Tormund why, he simply says, “You have your ways, we have ours.”

He’s made progress on his book. She doesn’t let the silence linger. “I assume you have writing in your own language?”

“Not like this,” Tormund replies briefly. He’s focused on his book, but when Sansa remains quiet he huffs and looks at her. “Are you going to keep bothering me until I tell you?”

“I can change the subject,” she replies easily. She’s slowly getting used to Tormund’s particular way of straightforwardness.

He huffs. 

“We have symbols carrying different meanings. Meeting spot, danger, bear spotted, hunting party, thin ice, that sort of thing to leave others. We have the knot language but usually if something needs to be written down, we do it on seal-skin. As I said,” he looks down at the book with neat rows of letters and illustrations at the broders, “nothing like this.”

Sansa leaves him be sooner than she would have liked. Some days are good, some are bad. 

That evening she meets Tormund near the battlements. He’s wearing the same outfit she’d seen him in before, and now she can see that the wrappings around his leg are a sort of bandage or a brace. She didn’t known Tormund was wounded. However, more importantly, she notes that he’s carrying gloves and another cloak with him.  _ Jon’s  _ gloves and cloak. Sansa frowns and pulls back her shoulders.

Tormund seems to realize he’s not passing by her without an explanation. “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep,” Tormund tells her. “Only you’re sensible enough to dress yourself.”

“How--” Sansa starts, but she lets the sentence drop as realization washes over her. 

There are things that are seen only by those who wish to see them. Ignorance and conviction are powerful self-deceptions. Sansa had learned to force herself to see all the truths, be they comfortable or not, but she’d never expected this. At once, she remembers Castle Black, Jon wishing to go to Dorne, Tormund and he constantly speaking in the wildling language. She remembers the wildling camp and the way Jon had laughed when he’d said he was meeting Tormund’s children. 

“Oh,” she says, shock turning into an uncomfortable feeling in her belly always present whenever she has a secret to hide. No wonder Jon had wanted his old room. It’s near the one Tormund should be occupying.

“You know that the Lords must not learn of your involvement.”

She needs, in that moment, for Tormund to understand that more than anything. She loves her brother. She wants to protect him and protect the position they’re in now. Just as a king can be made, he can be unmade. But she doesn’t know if Tormund realizes that. He comes from a different culture with a different set of rules. She needs to make certain he knows.

“We’ve had this conversation,” Tormund replies, shuffling from one foot to another, probably cold. His eyes are assessing when he asks, “How about you?”

“I love my family,” she says, more vicious than she’d intended. That is never to be questioned. 

She reins back her anger and forces herself to drop her shoulders. She was unprepared for this, but it matters little. She has to handle it properly all the same.

A wayward thought crosses her mind of Margery but she dispels it from her mind. No use making herself sad.

Tormund smirks and says, “Good. Just don’t tell him you know alright?”

“Why?” Sansa asks, jutting her chin out. 

“We made a promise to keep it a secret but I didn’t feel too keen about lying to his sister.”

_ Oh _ , Sansa thinks, and feels the panic in her gut uncurling. So Jon has  _ some _ sense. It’s good to know. She takes a breath and sighs. “Try the stables. He used to be around there somewhere. And if not..”

Tormund quirks an eyebrow but Sansa shakes her head. “There’s a door to the crypts near the gate. But it’s only for family.”

“I see,” Tormund says. He thanks her and leaves, step far too quiet for a man so large.

####  -

Governing has always been more than fighting. There are issues such a grain stock, food larders, number of ale barrels, packets of wood, just to name the most common, not to mention furs and leathers to keep the people warm through the winter. Once Sansa had been ignorant to this. She thought life was all about beautiful gowns and pretty boys, and was always cross with weird little Arya who kept company with peasants. 

She regrets that now. As much as she’d wanted to go South with her father, she’d fought twice as hard to return home.

Still, the issues remain. The white raven had arrived long ago and they are still sorely underprepared. 

Worse, she can see Jon’s mind is not in it. They sit at the large table in her chambers since Jon’s room is far too cozy for her taste. Though Winterfell had been damaged, the walls still run warm from the underground hot springs, and the baths are still steaming. Beside that, one of the servants comes in every so often to touch up the fire. 

Jon had offered that they talk in private before making decisions. Better to bring up issues and argue in an office or her room, than in front of the other lords, where they have to watch their words.

More than a dozen papers and raven scrolls, two goblets of wine, half-drunk, and more issues than they know what to do with litter her table. It feels as if every time they solve one problem, three more appear, be it from the people or from the lords and houses sworn to them.

“Are you listening to me?” Sansa asks, placing her hand over Jon’s. His skin is as cold as a piece of metal left out overnight, but she refrains from snatching her hand back.

Jon blinks at her, eyes focusing only after a few attempts. 

He’s changed, Sansa thinks, beyond just his appearance. The change isn’t in the clothes, and it’s not in the new hairstyle that reminds her of their father, and it isn’t the scars on his face, well-earned and proudly shown. She knows no reason why her brother is as he is; whether it be from the sights he’d witnessed beyond the Wall, the conditions at Castle Black, or because he died. All she knows is that it feels as if Jon is not all there or there at all.

At times he becomes a statue, unmoving, barely breathing, as if there’s so little fire of life left in him he can’t afford to even jitter his leg or twitch his fingers. His body is rigid, pinned to the chair, so she can’t even move him, and he’s so pale it frightens her. It’s as if his soul has retracted, plunged down into the depths of his mind, hidden itself from her and all the others. Perhaps that’s why it takes Jon a moment to react, to really look at her, to breath once again, and for his body to animate. 

He grips her hand loosely but then moves it away, as if self-conscious. 

“You’re good at this,” he says, eyes grazing the table and its contents. “And I mean really good. Some things I would have never thought would be a problem.”

Sansa, who thought Jon was still cross with her up until that point, has a reply ready on hand. “So are you. You know how to talk to the Lords. They listen to you.”

Jon smiles, and at once, his face comes alive. “Thank you, Sansa, but I wasn’t looking for assurance.” He inspects the rows of raven scrolls yet unopened. They have still so much to do. 

“Last time I was lord of anything, I was killed for it. That isn’t exactly a glowing reference to be King.”

“Our brother was King in the North too, and he won his title just like you,” Sansa replies. 

She isn’t sure where Jon wishes to lead this conversation. Rarely does he speak without purpose and, she’s learned, he measures his words in such a way that it always talks to the better part of his interlocutor. Sansa thinks he isn’t even aware he’s doing it -- a rare gift. Perhaps in time, Jon will learn to be a better politician. 

“I would have never gone to battle for Winterfell had you not come to Castle Black,” he says. “And we would have been slaughtered if the Vale Knights did not come for you.”

“I told you why I didn’t--”

“It’s not about what you did or didn’t tell me anymore. You doubted Littlefinger, you made a decision. Those are facts. Just like it’s a fact that we’re both alive right now. I owe you an apology.”

“Jon--”

“You were right about Ramsey. Now we have a defensible position. We have more men than we hoped for to lead into battle against the army of the dead and,” he adds, tapping one of the letters that had arrived from the Citadel a few days ago, “now we have information. Dragonglass under Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone used to be Stannis’ home. Cersei never cared much for it so she must have left it as is. There are no resources there, nothing to use. But she will not give it to you were you to ask for it.”

“She will ask for one thing only,” Jon sighs. “For me to bend the knee.”

“You aren’t seriously considering that?” Sansa scoffs. “She is--”

“She  _ is _ ,” Jon agrees, cutting her off. “But unless we have an alternative, we will need her fleet to transport the dragonglass and we will need to do it soon. Winter is here, Sansa, and the Night King is coming with it.”

“Do you think the northern lords will allow this? The Lannisters are the one thing we all hate  _ together _ .”

“And we will all die, together, if we do nothing,” Jon replies. Sansa knows it’s true, and yet, it brings her little joy to admit it. 

Before she can say anything else, there’s a knock on her doors. Maester Luwin comes in with apologies about the late hour. “A raven, your majesty,” he explains, giving Jon the scroll. “I would not have bothered you about it at such a late hour but the seal--”

Jon looks at it, and his expression shifts from a frown, to shock, to something else. “Thank you, maester.”

Only once the man has gone does Jon crack the seal, and unravel the message. She cannot read through paper, but she can see Jon’s eyebrows rising. When he looks at her, his eyes are lit with something else than grim determination. 

“What is it?” she asks. 

He hands her over the letter. The seal bears the symbol of house Targaryen. “It’s the alternative.”

####  -

In the morning, they reconvene over breakfast. Ghost sits over their legs like a house-cat, content to nibble little pieces of duck sausage Jon feeds him from his fingers while Sansa tries not to think of the many family breakfasts she spent at the table while arguing with Arya. It’s far too quiet.

“It could be a trap,” Sansa starts, barely half-way through her meal. 

“It’s not. Read the last line: All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes. Tyrion told me that, the night I met him.”

“Then that means Tyrion did kill his father, betrayed his family, and re-joined a southern invader. Doesn’t speak too highly of him,” Sansa rebuffs. Jon nods, somehow, looking mellow despite the gravity of the situation. It frustrates her more than she would like to admit. 

“What can you tell me about him?” Jon asks, surprising her. She’d not expected that. He lifts an eyebrow at her. “You  _ were _ married to him.”

Sansa has to, begrudgingly, admit that Tyrion had been nothing but gentlemanly towards her. Both of them had been forced into the sham marriage, and neither wished to do anything about consummating it. 

“He’s a clever man,” Jon says. “I don’t know Daenerys Stormborn, but you and I know Tyrion. He doesn’t seem like the man to follow blindly. Or to follow at all.”

“Jon,” Sansa intones in a way others would say ‘be reasonable’. “You would be prisoner on the island. If the letter is true, she has Dothraki savages, an army of Unsullied, and three dragons. Remember what happened to our ancestors when they went south. Our grandfather and uncle were burned.Our father was beheaded. Our brother was killed. The King in the North should stay in the north.”

Jon listens to her, nodding his head along. “You’re right. The King in the North should stay in the North. Daenerys Stormborn will, no doubt, ask me to bend the knee. But Cersei will ask the same of me were I to go to her.”

“So let them fight between themselves. Bow to the one who wins, if we must bow at all.”

“That would be the smartest thing to do were we not running out of time,” Jon acknowledges evenly. 

Frustrated, Sansa huffs. “The lords won’t be happy. If nothing else, they remember what the Targaryens did.”

For a while, Jon is silent. He rubs his hands together which are, as Sansa’s learned, perpetually cold now. “Before I was made Lord Commander, Stannis offered me a deal. He would legitimize me by Royal decree, if I helped him.”

He smiles when Ghost shifts, laying his head in his lap. He brushes the wolf’s head gently. “To be a Stark was all I ever wanted. But I am still a Snow. I will always be a Snow.”

He looks from Ghost up at Sansa and he’s still smiling. It unsettles her. 

“There must always be a Stark in the north. And the King must always stay in the North. I will, undoubtedly bend the knee to one of the Queens. But that doesn’t mean that my subjugation has to be yours. Or the Norths, for very long.”

Sansa licks her lips, feeling her fingers trembling, her heart galloping. “What are you saying, Jon?”

“I made a vow to live until the Long Night. And until the Long Night I will be King. When it comes, I  _ will  _ defend Winterfell and its people. And after, if there really is an after, you will take the crown. If there are two queens, why can’t there be three?”

####  -

As expected, the Lords of the North don’t take the news well but they’ve prepared for their disapproval. Jon proclaims Sansa as the Warden during his absence and adds, “Should I fall to Dragonfire, you will know that there’s still a Stark in Winterfell. I trust you will do the honorable thing. The right thing.”

The next morning, Jon leaves with Ser Davos and a handful of guards as their retinue. White Harbour is at least three hundred miles away from Winterfell and they will need a little more than a week to reach it before sailing for Dragonstone. 

The dawn is cruel and cold but Sansa is there to watch her brother climb onto his horse. From the courtyard she sees the terraces and so when Jon looks up at something Sansa’s gaze follows his until they both reach the same target -- Tormund. Sansa looks back at her brother. There’s so much emotion of Jon’s face, how she hadn’t realized about the affair before is beyond her. 

After all, when had Ghost let anyone touch him that wasn’t Jon? The wolf sits next to Tormund as he watches Jon leave, then obediently follows after Tormund once the man walks back inside the castle.

####  -

The gods are either smiling at her or laughing at her. Days after she’s sent one of her brothers to certain death, another is brought to her. Yet, Bran is not as he was once; he’s grown into a man but his gaze is distant as if he sees her, through her, and into her. As if she’s nothing but an apparition. Jon’s silences she could handle, but this is something different and she feels it in her gut. 

Bran says he’s the three-eyed raven but that means little to Sansa even after his explanation. She leaves his be. If she cannot help him she will not bother him, and now with Jon gone, there is even more to do than there was before. 

Baelish keeps trying to twine around her legs like an annoying cat, spewing unwanted advice. He’s getting impatient. That means he will do something and Sansa must prepare for whatever it is to contain the fallout.

The silence of the Godswood is the only peace she gets during her hectic days though she has long stopped praying. When she comes out into the snow, she expects to see Bran there, as he’s found a liking to it, or Baelish preemptively cutting off her means of escape. 

Jon had informed her that the man went into the family crypts to talk with him. A foolish thing to try and manipulate a person like Jon. 

Now, as she watches Tormund’s red hair glowing in the pale winter sun in front of the carved face of the weirdwood, she wonders if he too had gone against propriety and stepped into her family’s resting place. Somehow, she doubts it. 

How he recognizes her just from her feet, she doesn’t know. Yet, when she’s close, he says, “I didn’t think there were any heart trees left in the south anymore.”

“Winterfell is north,” she correct while clearing snow off the bench near the wood so she can sit. “This is the last one.”

Tormund looks grim in a way Sansa had never seen him before and she’d seen him bathed in blood. 

“The children of the forest made these faces,” he says nodding towards the tree trunk. “Beyond the Wall, we’d burn our dead and feed the ashes to the tree. We’d get married in front of them, and when it was time to give one a name, we’d do it in front of the heart tree too.”

“I was married under this tree. The Old Gods are worshiped only by us now,” Sansa says touching the white branches. “And not even they can protect us down south.”

Tormund lets out an unintelligible noise then says, “That bastard did say he wanted to get warm. I was expecting Dorne, not dragonfire.”

“Jon will be fine,” she says both for herself and Tormund. She places a hand on his shoulder, to reassure him. “We have to believe that.”

“Belief is one thing,” Tormund sighs, standing. He brushes snow from his furs and turns towards her. “So your other brother came back. Happy?”

“Of course,” she says, scooting over so Tormund can sit next to her. “I never thought I’d see him again.”

“Then what has your pretty brow all curled up?” Tormund asks.

Sansa smiles and look across the yard. All she can see is Brienne, standing in the distance, trying and failing to look conspicuous. 

“I have a rat problem,” Sansa replies.

“Ghost is good at hunting--”

“I don’t mean a literal rat, Tormund.” She gives man a significant look. 

“Oh,” he says softly, raising his eyebrows. “Want me to kill him for you?”

Sansa shouldn’t keep being shocked by the man, and yet, he perceivers in surprising her. “No,” she says, half-laughing, half-horrified. “This needs a different approach. You’d just get into trouble.”

Tormund grunts, as if he doesn’t really believe that. There are, Sansa knows, more men in Winterfell who dislike Baelish then like him, but he still commands the Lord of the Eyrie. At least, she thinks, for now. Baelish has nothing but limited influence. After all, Lord Royce is a proud, honorable man, while her cousin is a boy of fifteen, and not so easily manipulated anymore. Something can be done with that. 

As she thinks it, she watches Brienne’s armor flash, reflecting light, as she stands at attention. Maester Luwin passes through the gates, pushing Bran’s moving chair. 

He stops, uncertain when he sees Tormund, but at Sansa’s nod he continues until he reaches them. “My lady,” he inclines his head. He looks at Tormund, unsure how to address him, and falls silent. 

“Thank you, maester,” Bran says, dismissing him before the awkwardness can linger. 

“Bran,” she starts, “this is Tormund, one of the free folk chieftains--”

“I know who he is,” Bran says, eyes on the man next to her. “I saw you bury your father under the branches, and I saw the day you were named Tormund -- the fire in the night. I confirm your vows.”

“Bran’s...different,” Sansa tries, but Tormund already looks spooked. 

“I’m the three-eyed raven,” Bran corrects, sounding almost petulant about it. 

She watches as Tormund’s lips wobble, but where Sansa expects fear and doubt, there’s none to be found. The man simply throws his head back and laughs.

“Of course you are,” Tormund says, and it doesn’t sound unkind. “If those white bastards are real, and dragons are real, then so are the gods.”

Bran’s lip ticks up, and he looks mildly amused as if her brother, whom she used to know, is trying to push through the cold veneer. She’s missing something, but whatever it is remains hidden in Bran’s quirked lip and Tormund’s soft eyes.

####  -

Her office is positioned strategically in a tower in hopes of dissuading anyone who might come to waste her time. The rookery is nearby, and Maester Luwin, if she needs him, is only a quick walk away. 

Usually, Brienne has something to do while Sansa works in her office, and yet, today, she is keen on hovering.

“Speak your mind, Brienne,” Sansa says once the brooding gets too much even for her to ignore. 

“My lady,” she starts, “I think you’re a very competent person. You know how to judge character.”

Sansa looks up from her work to meet her eyes. It’s never good when Brienne starts with that sort of speech. 

“With that in mind, I must ask: is it truly safe to speak with that bearded-fellow when there are no guards around?”

Sansa lets out a noise of disbelief but also relief. She’d thought Brienne was going to bring up Baelish. “Tormund is Jon’s friend. I trust him.”

“But, my lady,” Brienne starts, sounding truly distressed. “How well do you really know him?”

“I know he was my brother’s prisoner. I know he could have killed him when he had the chance. I know he and his people fought for Winterfell, when they didn’t need to. I know I owe my position to the lives lost that day.”

“Just because one fights well doesn’t mean they have an honorable character,” Brienne replies. 

Sansa sighs. She knows why Brienne is saying this. Tormund likes to leer at her, though what possible fascination he finds in watching Brienne train she can’t fathom. After all, by now she knows Tormund reasonably well and he isn’t one to make fun of another. She also knows her brother. Jon is as honest and honorable as it gets. He wouldn’t choose his bed partner solely on their physicality. 

She wishes she can tell that to Brienne. However, if she understood Tormund’s request right, it’s that he and Jon made a vow to keep their relationship secret until their fight with the Night King, and she won’t be the one spreading rumours today. 

She trusts Brienne but there are always keen ears straining to hear what they shouldn’t.

“Have you spoken to Tormund, Brienne? Held one conversation with him?”   
  


“No, my lady,” Brienne admits. 

“You will find he’s quite a straightforward man. Right now, you could go and ask him if he has an issue with you. You can go tell him to stop looking at you.”

Brienne looks uncomfortable. She shifts from one leg to another and says, “Is that an order, my lady?”

“It is only if you wish it to be,” Sansa replies. “You  _ will _ be surprised. Trust me.”

Brienne nods and bows curtly before exiting the office. 

-

The next time she catches Tormund in the library, he’s nearing the end of his book. When he sees her he nods and she takes a seat in her usual chair. She waits for him to finish before she asks, “What did you think?”

“Boring,” Tormund replies, “but informative.”

He passes a hand over the cover, as if to better remember it, before he stands and replaces it on one of the shelves. He gathers his papers and rolls them up before putting them into his coat pocket. Sansa feels something has just ended.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Tormund says as he sits. 

Sansa nods, listening intently. It’s not often that Tormund asks for anything, but when he does it’s for his people. 

“I’ve been learning how to read for a while now, because I wanted to teach my daughters. But they’re far better at it than me. There are other children who want to learn too. Can it be organised somehow?”

“As a communal lecture?” Sansa asks, trying to think. They’d all had the same teachers true, but Sansa and Arya were taught additional things while the boys learned sword fighting. “How many?”

“For now seven or eight.” 

The number is not unmanageable, she just needs to organise with someone. Perhaps Maester Luwin will take on the burden of having new pupils to teach. “It would be good to have someone who speaks your tongue to be resent if something needs to be explained. You could share the duties with their teacher.”

Tormund looks down at the table where his fingers tap the surface before he looks back up at her. “I’m leaving in the morning. I’ve already stayed too long.”

“Leave where?” Sansa frowns. 

“North. We need to know how much time we have left and the closest castle to Hardhome is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Jon left instructions about it with the new Lord Commander.”

It’s unimaginably dangerous to go riding north, not only because of what’s beyond the Wall, but because they’ve officially crossed into winter. She can’t believe Jon would send Tormund of all the people up there. Sansa catches herself and admits that indeed, it’s what Jon would have done. Whom better to trust?

“I’ll organize it, but while you’re away I will have to speak with someone about it. Other chieftains?” 

“We’ll choose someone to shepard the children from the camp to Winterfell and back,” Tormund replies. He stops, for a moment, then looks her in the eye and says, “Thank you, Sansa.”

“You must let me see you off,” Sansa offers.

Tormund laughs. “No needs to wake you at the crack of dawn. How about we say goodbyes now and I’ll pretend you’re there tomorrow morning? I need to leave now for the camp anyway.”

It’s an absurd offer, but Tormund’s smile brings out her own. He offers his hand and Sansa shakes it, though unused to it. “Until we see each other again, Tormund.”

Tormund smiles and says something in the wildling tongue. “Gods be with you. See wasn’t so difficult was it?”

He stands but before he can make more than a few steps away from the table Sansa remembers what she’d wanted to ask him for so long. 

She raises her voice and says, “You told me marriage doesn’t work the same as with us. What did you mean by that?”

Tormund’s eyes are warm and telling. “We have one type for making children and another type for love.That one’s only for the heart trees to see.”

He slips from the library leaving Sansa in shock. Tormund  _ is _ married, she realized, but it isn’t to the woman that birthed his children. It’s to her brother.

####  -

Once Tormund leaves, Sansa is not alone with Bran for too long. Two guards come bumbling in, talking about someone pretending to be her sister. Only when she hears Ser Roderick's name does she realize the possibility of that being true. She is happy when she finds her sister in the family crypts. Arya is a little worse for the wear, true, but most importantly she’s  _ alive _ . 

The joy is only dampened only by her guilt. If she’d been terrible to Jon she was even worse to Arya. 

“I thought you were--” Sansa trails off. She has to hug Arya again, just to make sure her sister is there. No matter what, she is glad Arya is there. “You’re  _ alive _ .”

Arya laughs, softly, a little breezily. When Sansa pulls back there are tears in both of their eyes. 

“We should talk,” she tells Arya.

There is much to talk about, and much Sansa has to apologize for. Seeking forgiveness from Jon is one thing, and quite another seeking forgiveness from Arya, who nods and says, “Maybe let me get a meal in first?”

Sansa does her one better, and leads her to Bran.

Yet, their conversation always seem to be put off for a meal, for a drink, for a meeting or politics. Arya sometimes disappears completely, appearing weeks later without an excuse ready or, Sansa realizes, necessary. Winterfell is her home as well, and she needs no permission. 

She’s changed, Sansa thinks when they finally sit to have a supper in Sansa’s chambers. She has always looked like Jon, but their experience has affected them so that where Jon tends to get lost in thought, Arya is awake and aware. She is a sharp and cold blade of a dagger, just like the one Bran had pawned off to her. 

“I found something,” Arya says and procures a raven scroll. She passes it to Sansa who unfurls it and feel, the moment she recognizes her own handwriting, dread curling in her belly. 

She’d written this letter under duress and yet it’s just as damning if she had been serious. 

“Where did you find this?” Sansa demands. She folds it, clenching it tightly in her hand. 

With Jon’s absence, now counting almost two months, the northern lords have been speaking up, one after another. Sansa has tried to pacify them, especially since Jon sent a letter from Dragonstone informing of his safe arrival, and that he’d be a guest on the island until the negotiations are over. 

In addition, he’d written a line only for Sansa: “Conditions as expected.” The dragon queen had wanted Jon to bend the knee as they’d thought she would. Sansa had warned Jon against it, and Jon knew what was at stake. Now, she must count on his growing sense of politics to steer him in the right direction. 

However, if the northmen can’t trust her, they can’t trust Jon. Somehow, Sansa knows Baelish will use the situation in his favor were the letter to get out.

“This was mother’s and father’s bedroom,” Arya notes, unperturbed by Sansa’s panic. She looks comfortable in her chair, almost relaxed except for the fact both her feet are planted on the ground as if she’s ready to jump at any moment. 

“So?” Sansa asks. 

“I remember going to them when I had night terrors. You always chased me out of your room since it was past our sleeping time. You didn’t want Septa Mordaine to catch you awake.”

She places her dagger, the one that would have killed Bran so long ago, on the table and pushes it towards Sansa who, somewhat reflexively, curls her fingers over it. 

“You’d spend your time indoors, perfecting embroidery. Do you remember? You were always so very proud of your needlework. I was always slacking. I never cared to learn how to make a dress.”

“Arya,” Sansa frowns. “What does this have to do with the letter?”

“You were there when they killed father. In your pretty dress and pretty hair made up. And father was there because of you. He died because of you.”

“He did  _ not _ ,” Sansa says, sharp and quick. “Joffrey should have pardoned him. He was  _ supposed  _ to pardon him, send him to the Wall, to serve as an example--”

She huffs turning away. “Where did you find the letter, Arya?”

Arya’s smirking, observing Sansa with a keen eye. “And when you don’t put the northern lords in their place for questioning Jon’s authority? Is that to make him an example as well?”

Sansa’s quietly terrified. She folds her hands in her lap. “I would never risk our  _ family _ .”

“Since when has Jon been family, Sansa?” Arya lifts an eyebrow. “He was always half-brother to you. You were always so keen in reminding him.”

“And so I was. I was cruel and stupid, and a child. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn to be better. That doesn’t mean that I wasn’t as glad to see Jon in Castle Black as I was glad to see you here, in Winterfell.”

“You mean that,” Arya says quietly, and it’s not a question. She looks down at the table between them, and her sharp eyes turn down to the dagger which she has yet to take back.

When she speaks again she tells Sansa a frightening story about her stay in Bravos, about her game of faces and the faceless men. It’s not complete. There is so much left unsaid: how Arya got to Bravos in the first place, how she found the Faceless Men, how she got back, but it’s a taste of what Arya went through to get home. Just like her. All this time, Arya has wanted to go home. 

Sansa feels like hugging her again but knows that if she should try now, with their raw edges exposed, they would only hurt each other. Instead she says, “Let’s go for a stroll.”

Even during the night, it’s so obvious Winterfell has changed. She tells Arya how and why. She tells her about Ramsey, about Theon, about Rickon and the battle. She doesn’t tell her everything. There are many more nights in front of them. Maybe, someday, Sansa will be able to convey the quiet horror of being trapped in her own home but for now she can only offer quiet recounting of it’s destruction.

For now, that is enough. She feels understanding blooming between them slowly, like it never has before, and they have time ,whatever little there is left, to try and be a family again. That’s more important than what a dead man did or did not do to her.

They walk the battlements until they reach the southern gate.

“There’s a rat in your home, Lady Stark,” Arya says, crossing her hands behind her. She has a subdued smile on her face when she asks, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Lay a trap, of course,” Sansa replies making Arya chuckle. Sansa looks at the dagger in her hands she’d picked up from the table, curved and deadly and beautiful. 

Blue meets blue, when Sansa meets Arya’s eye. “Help me?”

“Of course,” Arya replies. “You shouldn’t even ask.”

Sansa nods and holds out the dagger. Arya returns it to its sheathe. “Lady Brienne could be of help.”

“I’m sending her to King’s Landing. Jon is meeting with Cersei and the dragon queen to broker peace until the threat to the north is handled.”

Arya has a thoughtful expression on her face that has grown serious and sharp. Her eyes are quick, piercing lances that pulse with something. Perhaps it’s conviction. 

Arya says, “Then we should be quick about laying that trap because I’ll be leaving with her.”


End file.
